


They Come Back, Sometimes

by primreceded



Category: Lost Boys (1987)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-31
Updated: 2010-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded





	They Come Back, Sometimes

**Title:** They Come Back, Sometimes  
 **Rating:** pg13  
 **Fandom:** The Lost Boys  
 **Disclaimer:** All characters, recognizable settings and or themes belong to Warner Bros., and others. I am in no way earning money or other profit from this fanfic.  
 **Char/Pair:** Michael/David  
 **Prompt:** _It took me a long time to find him, you can't expect me to let go so easily (David didn't die at the end of the movie and he comes back for what's his)._ @ [](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/smallfandomfest/profile)[](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/smallfandomfest/)**smallfandomfest**  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Warnings:** None  
 **W/C:** 1,114  
 **A/N:** Hm.

Michael walks a lot these days. Feels safer that way, even though he now knows there’s no such thing as _safe_. There’s a thin layer of dust that’s settled itself over his motorcycle, he can’t bring himself to touch it more than to swipe a finger through the filth. There’s a vulnerability on the back of it that he can’t afford. You can’t run and hide on the back of a bike.

His mother and grandfather give him a wide berth; he’s heard them whispering about him at night when they think he’s asleep. Sammy just looks at him with sad eyes that cut deeper than listening to his mother sniffling at the kitchen table.

He walks to escape.

The bright lights from the rides and the game stands make the night seem like day as he weaves his way through the crowded boardwalk. It feels _right_ here - even though this is where it all started (or because this is where it all started) - among the living who have no idea what’s out there and what the darkness is capable of. He can’t see the stars in the sky for the brightness but he knows they’re there. The ocean crashes against the shore to his left, sand crunches under his feet even where he walks from the locals and the tourists tracking it onto the wood from their bare feet. The feel of it makes him grit his teeth against it, every little speck gets under his skin.

The wooden roller coaster screams past him, kicking up air in the otherwise still night. It carries happy shrieks and the smell of warm spun sugar, of salty sea. It does nothing for him where before it would have thrilled him, even from the ground.

He ignores the carnies as they shout down at him from their game stands, doesn’t look them in the eye because he doesn‘t know what they’ll see. The music from the carousel would drive him crazy if he let it.

\---

He straddles the tow hitch of an abandoned funnel cake cart, metal digging hard into his ass. There’s a cigarette pinched between his fingers that he hasn’t put to his lips since he lit it, the cherry red sparks of light get lost in the bright neons and whites from the rides and food carts in front of him.

It’s quieter here, tucked at the end of the Walk, in the shadows of the other venders. No screaming kids, the speakers blasting heavy metal are far enough away to be just a muted annoyance. It’s quiet, so he hears the rustle. The foot steps. He tenses at the sound, hair standing up on the back of his neck and he rises slowly from the tow hitch to turn around and look behind him. He peers into the dark but sees nothing. Feels something.

“Hey!”

Michael whirls around to find Sam grinning up at him from the seat of his bike, barely keeps himself from reaching out and knocking a good one upside his head. Instead he raises a shaky hand to run through his hair and blows a long breath through pursed lips.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks as Sam climbs from his bike and grabs the cigarette from Michael’s hand before taking Michael’s seat on the tow hitch.

“Going to the comic shop. I thought I saw you come this way, guess I was right huh?”

Sam goes on to ramble about some new comic or other but Michael tunes him out, focuses on the other sounds in the area. The rustling behind him _rustling of fabric rustling of a long coat_ starts again, like someone shifting from foot to foot, waiting. He tilts his head.

“Maybe you’ve got post traumatic stress disorder, you know it would be understandable. Do you think Mom’ll make you see a shrink?”

“Will you stop talking so much? I don’t have that.” Michael grabs his cigarette back and shoves at his brother’s shoulder to get him to move. “Go play with your stupid friends.”

Sam huffs but gets up to do as he’s told anyway. Michael feels a pang of guilt for a moment, knows the kid is just as fucked up about this as he is, but he can’t do anything about it right now.

Sam raises the kickstand on his bike and throws a leg over the seat before turning around to stare down his thin nose at Michael.

“You’re better, right?”

“Yeah, Kid. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t sound convincing and he’s not trying to be. Sam doesn’t call him on it either, just tilts his mouth up into a half assed smile and peddles away.

\---

Michael drops what’s left of the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot as he moves slowly away from the cart and starts walking back in the direction he came. Ignores the shadows fluttering around behind him and focuses on the shouts of glee, the game bells and whistles that drown out the flutter of wind and wings.

He hunkers down into the collar of his leather jacket and quickens his pace, eyes downcast to watch his steps take him out of the dark. He almost makes it.

The wind is knocked from his lungs as he’s thrust against something hard and solid. Another abandoned cart probably, candy apples or that creepy clown game with the balloons and his eyes are closed and he doesn’t want to open them because he knows what he’s going to see looking back at him.

The warm puff of air against his cheek is a sickly sweet smell, something he’ll never forget. Something he inhales deeply.

“Open your eyes, Michael.”

He wants to. He doesn’t ever want to.

“You’re dead.”

“I’m right here,” said with lips brushing his cheek, sharp nips of teeth to the flesh that makes him wince and push pull into the touch. “I came back for you.”

“I killed you,” and Michael knows that’s not true. But he could have.

He opens his eyes.


End file.
